


and my cold blood

by cherrytart



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Bodily Fluids, Canon Era, Clothed Sex, Des Voeux Typical Everything, Dirty Talk, M/M, Not Hate Sex So Much As General Dislike and Resentment Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29387031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrytart/pseuds/cherrytart
Summary: Goodsir sweats, just like any other man.
Relationships: Charles Frederick Des Voeux/Harry D. S. Goodsir
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	and my cold blood

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt "don't pretend"
> 
> title is of from much ado about nothing

He likes fucking Goodsir like this.

He has the assistant surgeon up against the far wall of the slop room, empty, now, since the little eskie went and pitched herself back onto the ice, same night Mr Blanky lost his leg over on Terror. Goodsir sweats just like any other man, and Charles likes, too, to press his mouth to Goodsir’s temple and taste it.

If anyone asked, and they haven’t, yet, he’d say it was because it was one of the few things guaranteed to shut him up – when Charles leans his weight in, not much of it but enough to count, and holds him tight enough to make any sound other than soft, squeaking breaths an impossibility. 

Charles wouldn’t peg Goodsir for a habitual sodomite – certainly he’d have known about it, if the pretty assistant surgeon had been giving it to anyone else, Terror or Erebite, before now. Sailors are a mouthy lot, after all.

He tells Goodsir this, to see him gape wetly in something close to outrage. “Better than any ships boy, aren’t you, for this? Wet little snatch.”

Goodsir makes a sound like he wants to curse. Charles plans on making him, someday soon, but not tonight. This’ll do. He fits his fingers around Goodsir’s pale thigh and tugs him further open. He’s got a pretty cock and all – the first time Charles touched it he made one of his little outraged noises, spoiled somewhat by him spurting off all over his surgeon’s apron a moment later.

When the girl was on the ship, Goodsir stopped eating in the gunroom with the rest of them. Charles would come down for his watch after supper and catch sight of him through the slats, him and the girl with their dark heads bent together, Goodsir scribbling whatever she told him down into his damn dictionary. It feels like victory, of a sort, to bring him in here and bruise him up with hand and mouth and cock. 

“Do get on with it, Mr Des Voeux,” Goodsir mutters when Charles takes a second to adjust his stance – fucking on a ship at sea, that he’s done, but not one stuck fast into ten feet of ice, and certainly not with a man as damn infuriating as Goodsir.

“Oh?” He does as he’s asked, still, for Goodsir – Harry, he might call him, see what sort of faces he’d make _then_ – has a surgeon’s crisp assumption of authority even with his trousers shoved down his soft, dark furred thighs and Des Voeux’s cock slick and filling up his arse. “Don’t pretend, darling,” he continues, tilting into Goodsir at just the right angle, the heady tightening of his hole a sign he’s close. “You’re above all this, then? P'raps I should go and stick it elsewhere, yeah?”

Goodsir makes one of those little noises, and Des Voeux rolls his eyes, as well as he can in his current position, and claps a hand roughly over his mouth. Whatever answer Goodsir might have made to that, whatever denial of how much he loves it, which Des Voeux would honestly rather like to hear because its something, isn’t it, to be the recipient of all that long suffering disdain, is muffled quite effectively. 

Oh, Goodsir hides it well enough – up above in sickbay he’s courtesy itself, and Charles thinks, this is the funny thing, its genuine. As though the men they are down here bear no resemblance at all to their other selves – the selves that trekked all those miles through the ice with the old Eskimaux bleeding out on their sledge, command thrust into Des Voeux’s hands unceremoniously, thanklessly, and certainly not in any way he’d ever have wished for.

He’d been caught between admiring Goodsir and wanting to give him a good kicking, that three day race back to Erebus. Charles had thought him a nuisance before, for certain, decorative in the way civilian officers often were, and soft besides. When Goodsir had raised his voice, though, in defense of the old man dying on the sledge, the men had listened. _Charles_ had listened. 

His opinion's not much changed, but as sweetly as Goodsir takes his prick now, warm and open and panting, there’s a thread of steel in him he wouldn’t have thought to find, and the thrill of trying to grasp it – oh, that’s enough to keep him coming back. He leans in and gets his teeth into that white throat, carefully, under the collar, holds them there long enough to hurt, and feels Goodsir shudder beneath the pressure, his own mouth working against Des Voeux's hand. 

He cracks his eyes open to look at Goodsir. He likes to go about the whole thing with a martyred expression, as though he hadn’t followed Charles in here with his wide cows eyes and eager mouth, as though he isn’t whining and panting for more of it. 

“Somewhere else you need to be, Mr Goodsir?” he hisses, letting go of Goodsir's mouth and taking the other man’s prick in his hand, chafing it once, twice, with just enough roughness to make Goodsir’s head snap back. “Don't let me keep you.”

Hard not to feel a little mindless to it, winding up taut inside him. He’s always liked the build up better, the anticipation of the thing, seeing how far he can push. Goodsir’s slim, rough hands are tugging at his hair, his foot hitched up to knock against one of the shelves with every movement, and Des Voeux fancies he could take his hand off his cock and fuck him into spending just like this, slide of skin on bare skin and the fog of their breath on the cold air.

There’s not time for that. Perhaps another day. Pulling him off hardly takes a second, and it has its advantages, the warm tightening of his fundament around Charles’ cock, speeding him to his own end.

If Goodsir were a more biddable type, he’d turn him round, spread him wide and watch his spend leak from that slack hole, proof of where he’d been. It’d make a right state of his gloves, but – he shoves once more into Goodsir, the mundane, sticky rush of his climax sending spots to his eyes, Goodsir whimpering, raw throated, biting into his own hand, now – worth it. He’s never been afraid of a bit of mess.

**Author's Note:**

> you may yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/itgottheleg) and [tumblr](https://regularmongoose.tumblr.com) if you wish.


End file.
